


Sleep Well, My Dear

by Sodium_Azide



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Can Do Temptations, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Competent Aziraphale (Good Omens), Corporate Espionage, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley's Eyes (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Crowley's Orange Jacket (Good Omens), First Time, M/M, Twitter, YES HE'S BOTH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29586360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodium_Azide/pseuds/Sodium_Azide
Summary: What's an angel to do, when his best friend is upset and sleeping it off?Maybe go and be a bit proactive about fixing it.Written for the Unleash The Chaos zine
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 73
Collections: Unleash The Chaos - Zine Fics and Art





	Sleep Well, My Dear

**Author's Note:**

> I am weak for Aziraphale wearing Crowley's metaphorical hat, and it very much shows.

“Gonna’ be asleep for a bit, angel. Don’t wake me.” 

Aziraphale blinked at the silent receiver in his hand. Abrupt he might usually be, but his demon didn’t typically call to deliver a sentence and then immediately ring off. The angel thought for a moment, then began bustling about, gathering small items, neatening his desk, and giving a splash of water to the tiny succulent that sat in a place of honor by his computer. 

A quiet bus ride later, he petted the ouroboros door knocker at Crowley’s door and thanked it quietly as at least three locks slid back and the wards let him through with a tickle. 

The angel’s worry ticked up a degree as he passed by Crowley’s typically-immaculate desk, now covered with a hodgepodge of papers, but continued to the bedroom, where the darkness of a complete lack of windows and demonic presence was brooding. 

A pile of apparently every soft textile in the flat was heaped on the bed, and he circled around the other side, then stopped and covered his mouth to cover a sentimental smile at the barely-visible sleeping face buried in a stolen afghan, that usually lived in the bookshop on cozy winter evenings.

Aziraphale tiptoed out of the room and waved a hand in a complex pattern over the threshold, ensuring peaceful and restorative rest, as well as soundproofing the room within.

His smile faded at the memory of sullen exhaustion in Crowley’s voice, and he retraced his steps over to Crowley’s desk. 

Ah.

A copy of the Infernal Times, a short article circled in red ink about the successful destruction of needed medical supplies by some demon with an unfamiliar name. Crowley’s massive planning folder was open, with pages of notes dating back years, of bribes to border officials, blackmail of a particularly vile biopharmaceutical executive, thefts of classified documents later leaked online leading to several arrests and an ongoing series of legal battles. (the demon had even included copies of each warrant, the thorough creature) 

His fingers stroked some scribbled notes about the proprietary reagent that was now available at a fraction of the intended cost, bankrupting two companies. (and allowing shipments to poor countries) The angel wondered idly how Crowley had been planning to avoid mentioning that last part, in the eventual report to Hell, before Armageddidn’t had rendered their jobs null and void. He tapped the page. His chaotic, sweet, bitterly disappointed demon.

The angel frowned, thinking rapidly as he read Crowley’s notes in greater detail, slowly nodding as he abruptly stood and walked to the flat’s entryway closet. He muttered to himself as he hung up his beloved antique coat and took out the polyester high-visibility jacket within. The angel shrugged it on, straightened, and walked out of the flat. By the time he had reached the lift, the heel-click of his brogues had shifted to the dull thump of work boots. By the time he was outside the building, the cold expression and authoritative stride rendered him unrecognizable from the person who had arrived.

A week passed before Crowley stumbled yawning into his kitchen to blearily pour himself a generous serving of coffee. He couldn't even remember the last time he had slept so well. Scruffling his hair with his free hand, he ambled morosely into his office but froze at the sight of the neat stack of papers, topped with an envelope addressed to him in beautiful handwriting. The demon hesitantly set down his cup and broke the wax seal, skimming the contents along with the enclosed small newspaper clipping from yesterday’s Times.

Aziraphale had just taken his first sip of morning cocoa when he heard the squeal of the Bentley’s tires outside his bookshop. He had barely managed to escape the cozy confines of his armchair before the door was slamming shut behind an exceedingly fast-moving demon. He beamed. “Crowley dear, it’s good to see you, did you-” 

Without slowing in the slightest, Crowley gripped him tightly and carried him backwards, falling back into his armchair as the demon crawled up into his lap, tossed his sunglasses to the side, and kissed him hard enough to bruise. 

Aziraphale had a near-perfect memory. He was proud of it, after a fashion, even if most of Heaven and Hell could claim the same. He could not begin to recount with any degree of accuracy any of the events of the next few hours. There were flashes, through the strange mix of need and relief. A long-fingered hand feverishly undoing his shirt. His own fingers tightening too hard on a fistful of bright hair, and the dark satisfaction at the resulting moan. The strangely thrilling pain as sharp teeth sank into the skin of his throat. His stuttering voice as he agreed to everything, anything, and the crooning responses before the demon’s knees hit the floor and there were no more words.

_Finally, finally, yes, please, oh thank you, more, closer._

Later, on the couch, covered by a familiar afghan, the angel blinked lazily up at the ceiling as Crowley shifted slightly, lighting-quick forked tongue sipping at their combined scents in the air. 

“Got your letter.”

Aziraphale smiled slowly. “I thought you might have done, yes.” 

“That. That was ‘mazin’.”

“I agree, darling. Do you sing? You screamed with perfect pitch when I saw to you that second time, on the floor.”

“Ngk. Well, yeah, but, the letter too. You…just...intercontinental import permissions? World Health Organization dispensations? _The Pope tweeted about it._ ”

Aziraphale giggled and pressed a kiss to the nearest bit of pale skin he could reach. “I don’t know what that is, dearest, but presumably His Holiness must have, when I brought the matter to his attention.” Crowley stared wordlessly, pupils dilated into almonds in fully-golden eyes.

The angel cuddled unabashedly closer and sighed dreamily. “I learned from the very best, my dear.”


End file.
